An' zome do come, while zome do goo:
As wither'd beech-tree leaves do cling
Among the nesh young buds o' Spring;
An' frettèn worms ha' slowly wound,
Droo beams the wold vo'k lifted sound,
An' trees they planted little slips
Ha' stems that noo two eärms can clips;
An' grey an' yollow moss do spread
On buildèns new to wold vo'k dead.
The backs of all our zilv'ry hills,